Long ago, so the story went, the Lords of Heaven—twelve ageless beings whose powers and forms were beyond human comprehension—had created all of existence: the world, and all who lived in it. Six Lords had created heaven and earth, the seas and the skies, heat and cold, day and night. These six, the Lords of Earth, Sea, Sky, Ice, Fire, and Light, were revered as the Forgers of the World. The other six Lords—the Creators of Life—had dedicated long labors to populating the world that their comrades had forged. Their early efforts had yielded animals and plants of every shape and size, but still they toiled on, unsatisfied. They were striving towards a far higher goal: the creation of a creature that not only existed in the world, but strove to transcend it.

And so, they created humanity. And for a time, the world endured, and a golden age of peace stretched on for a thousand years.

Well, I’ve gone and done it now. As soon as midnight hit, I started work on my next NaNo project, a follow-up to last year’s. I’m coming up on 3500 words at the moment, but I decided to take a break from that and say that, yes, there will be much more content incoming. (And at the same time, much less, since I’ll have many other things to concentrate on as well.)

Here’s an excerpt from the beginning of “The Exiles’ Tale (Real Name TBA)”. Enjoy!

There’s a lake in the woods that I loved to visit when I was younger. I don’t remember exactly where it was, or exactly when I went, but I do remember the time spent there, and how each day seemed more enjoyable than the last.

I remember walking barefoot with my siblings along the narrow strip of sand at the water’s edge, looking for turtles and frogs, or perhaps oddly shaped pieces of wood, washed clean of their bark by the water. I remember picking up one of the longer pieces from the water’s edge, waving it like a sword, splashing my siblings with the trailing droplets of water. Continue reading →

The High King Caldemarion lay dead upon the field, his forces in disarray. The once-proud hosts of Caldemar and the Empire now sought only to retreat. Flames burned across the plains, scars of war magic flung about by both sides.

Crown Princess Katarine—now the uncrowned queen—rode with what was left of her guards through the field. Her armor was grimed with smoke, her sword red in her hand and her arms bloody to the elbow, yet still it was not enough. They were being pushed back. They had lost the battle, lost the war, lost the throne.

Hoof-beats sounded, and two horses pounded out of the smoke ahead. Their riders wore the white coats of Imperial Knights, though they were barely recognizable as such through the filth of battle. One of the horses was doubly laden: a knight held one of his comrades in the saddle in front of him, the other man’s form hanging limply. The Imperials, seeing Katarine’s banner, pulled to a halt, raggedly saluting. “Lady Caldemarion, dire news!”

It was like a slow descent through water–gradually sinking further and further downward. The sensation was a familiar one to Korra: when she had created the spirit portal, she and Kuvira had sunk down with the same slow, deliberate motion.

“Are we… dead?” Kuvira had haltingly asked, looking around with wild eyes. Korra had known better. Even if she hadn’t recognized the Spirit World, she would have known. The dead didn’t feel as much exhaustion as she had in that moment. It was finally over.Continue reading →

Lyon woke up to the sound of rustling from the other side of his room and slowly opened his eyes. Glancing over at the corner, he saw a dark-haired figure sitting in his chair, one arm crossed over their chest to hold the other. The moonlight through the window fell on his open sewing kit on the floor nearby. He cleared his throat meaningfully.

The intruder started guiltily, looking up, and he recognized Vera’s face. She smiled disarmingly. “Evening.”

I wrote this poem this May, during my month in Ireland. We were driving up from Ballinskellig to Galway, through a succession of alternating sunshine and rain, and as I was acting navigator for the day, I had a good view of the countryside. We’d spent the morning listening to the poetry of Seamus Heaney, so it was his style I had in mind while writing.

I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen and grimaced. It was beginning to get dark outside, and apart from my computer screen, the only thing illuminating the room was the string of Christmas lights wrapped around my roommate’s bedposts. This is probably bad for my eyes. I should go turn on the light…

I didn’t move, though. Partially, it was laziness. I’d replaced the standard-issue college apartment desk chair with a much more comfortable one, picked up at a rummage sale. Once I sat down, it was much easier for me to justify staying there. The other half was the feeling that, once I got up, I wouldn’t be able to muster the motivation to sit down again and actually finish the goddamn paper.

Three hours already, and I’ve got barely anything to show for it. Shit.

Before I knew what I did, before the night that I found out the truth, I didn’t have to spend any effort to act normal. I was normal. I could treat the people around me as I always had.

Of course, once I knew what had happened–what had been kept from me–everything was different. I was walking on broken glass, slowly and carefully, trying my best not to slip and gash myself. Every time that I saw his crooked smile or heard one of his barking laughs, I tensed. I wanted to scream. How could you have done this? Why? Did you think it was your right? Or did you not stop to think at all?

A scream in your own head echoes louder and longer than any other scream can.

But I said nothing. I watched him continue on, as he always had, with no need to act normal. He was normal. For months, we lived in the same room without me speaking a word directly to him. I spent every free hour that I had in front of my desk–shutting out the sounds of him when he was there, ears filled with music that still wasn’t enough to drown out the echoing screams. Despite what I said, no amount of mental contortion was going to excuse him.

It was worse, though, when I was alone. It was no longer the comfortable solitude that allowed me to recover from a long day of classes. The room seemed emptier than usual, almost hollow despite the cluttered space. The quiet was so absolute that even the soft ticking of my pocket-watch, sitting on the desk beside me, could be distinctly heard.

I withdrew from social circles and merely went through the motions of attending class. I couldn’t focus with him a few seats over, continuing on as if nothing had happened. He didn’t need to act normal. He was normal. I skipped out on study sessions that he might be attending. I failed the final exam of one of the classes we shared, and only the excellent grades that I’d had for the first half of the semester prevented me from having to repeat the class.

Final exams ended for him, and he left with his usual jaunty confidence. I had found that aspect of his personality amusing, once. Now it was a reminder of what he had done–what he had hidden from everyone. We exchanged hollow promises of seeing each other next year. It was the first time I had spoken to him in three months. It would be one of the last.

That semester–pretending to be normal, going through the motions of a life turned on its head–was one of the worst of my life.

I pledge my life and honor to Saren and all her dominions: my body to shield her people, my arm to strike down her enemies.

I shall carry out the will of the Royal Line with all of my strength, defending their lives above my own.

I shall fight with honor upon the battlefield, holding the protection of the defenseless as the highest ideal.

I shall not falter in the execution of my duty to my land and my liege, nor in the upholding of my sworn word, in peace as well as in war.

I shall hold to these vows until my last breath. Should I be called to give my life in their service, I shall do so without hesitation.

Thus do I vow, before heaven and earth.

Short and sweet today. As I’ve mentioned before, I have a bad habit of working backwards, even when I’m working forwards. The beginning of the story initially known as The Knights’ Tale (the current working title is Crown and Blade) has moved further and further back–from just after Miri was ambushed, to just before that, to just before the invasion, to considerably before the invasion, until finally I ended up at the knighting ceremony for Perin’s subordinates and needed some vows to put in there. Thus, these.